


The Case of the Perfect Husband

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (US TV 1954)
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Behind the Scenes, Book: The Hound of the Baskervilles, Case Fic, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Friendship/Love, Husbands, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Story: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Story: The Adventure of the Speckled Band, True Love, Unreliable Narrator, Victorian, victorian husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 00:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16671679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: A distraught woman comes to 221b Baker Street: Her husband, the rich and respectable art collector Russel Partridge, announced to her after a party that he was going to murder her tomorrow tonight at 9 o’clock. While Holmes and Watson try to save the client, they also try to keep their feelings and – in the eyes of the British law, perverse – desires in check.





	The Case of the Perfect Husband

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthienberen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/gifts).



 

> The warmth and gaiety of a successful party. The pleasure of friends amongst friends. The anticipation of new and interesting people to meet. These are the elements of an enjoyable evening. These are often the memorable occasions in life.
> 
> This is a story that started at a party, gay, joyous, and festive. This is a story of a party that ended with fear and horror. It was a cry for help that Sherlock Holmes will never forget.

 

That is how I started the narration of _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ for the public. Oh, it had been a challenging case and I remembered all too well Holmes’ agitation and the almost unmasked fear of being finally beaten. The villain, the ‘oh-so-not-perfect’ husband, had been one of the most vicious creatures we have ever encountered.

It is not important per se that I recall the events as I had been at Holmes’ side. However, it had rattled us, and I have long learned that writing it down soothed my nerves. Some tales I alter for the magazine, others I put in a strong wooden box, and one or two stories I put to paper only to burn them afterwards. This recollection, I guess, will fall in the third category.

 

_The Case of the Perfect Husband_ started with a lady consulting us in 221b Baker Street. Her name was Mrs. Russel Partridge. She was agitated, insisted that what she had to tell us was the uttermost truth and that she did not suffer from hysteria or such like. The lady, our client – or so it had seemed at the time – confided in us: her husband, a rich and respectable art collector, had threatened to kill her the next day at 9 o’clock sharp. Apparently, he had announced it to her after their numerous guests had left their party yesterday evening.

Why he had done so? Holmes had asked calmly, as if not all was a scandal most unheard of. Because no one would believe her, was her reply.

I will admit I had my doubts. Which increased when minutes later, Inspector Lestrade showed up at 221b and informed us that the husband had visited him at Scotland Yard. Apparently, his wife was in a severe nervous condition. I was no expert in such matters as I had been only trained as a surgeon for the army and worked as a general practitioner nowadays but one hears about marriages in trouble and in particular the sensitive side of the fairer sex. And even though I do not intend to leave my bachelor quarters with Holmes any time soon, one could easily paint a picture.

Or, at least, I thought I could.

Needless to say, there is a reason why Holmes and I are not husband material, as well as why he is the detective and I am his assistant. Come to think about it, even without the events occurring with the villain – the serial killer – being brought to justice, _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ served as an apt reminder.

Holmes insisted on keeping the case. Maybe there was no official case – as the lady refused to hire us all of a sudden, or should I say, dropped all the accusations when her husband appeared minutes after Lestrade to apologize for any inconvenience and to take his now docile wife home – but Holmes reminded me that for a detective to use his skills, it was not necessary to have a client. It was curiosity that drove him on, and that case offered plenty to feed that curiosity. Furthermore, for the private record, it was also justice that motivated him and I was rarely more proud of him then when he convinced me to investigate on our own. After all, there is one case that pays and the next that is done pro bono, or so he had claimed. All the while, his eyes were gleaming. He was pretty as a picture.

The game was afoot, and as always, I followed him willingly.

Going against his own judgment, Lestrade had the search warrant issued. To be frank, there was no alternative when Holmes had told him in no uncertain terms that otherwise the eighth victim would be on his head. Scotland Yard entered the Partridges’ house around three o’clock in the afternoon and searched with the efficiency only that organisation was capable of. From the basement to the attic, nothing was left unsearched. We wandered from room to room. However, no curtain, no cellar, no cupboard held anything of promise. All seemed to be perfectly in order.

Holmes led the entire project. I have never seen him so intent, so intense. With each passing minute, Holmes was getting more and more agitated, frustrated, almost snappish and rude. Oh, it was dreadful! I knew it was the case that made him like that but it had always hurt me to see him so lost. The clock ticked in the main hall and it seemed to me as if it was mocking us. As if we did not know that we were running out of time. In the evening, the villain would murder the young woman, and it seemed as if there was nothing we could do against it. If Partridge was the criminal Holmes believed him to be, there was no question: it seemed as if he had won.

“This is an ugly and dangerous business, Watson, and the more I see of it, the less I like it.”

“It is a puzzle, is it not?”

“A puzzle, yes.”

“A big intricate puzzle. And it is as if we have the corner pieces, but a lot of the middle pieces are missing. In fact, all of them. The one with main bits of the picture on, I mean. Where are those damned pieces? What is the damn picture of? No instruction, not even a box with the picture on the lid to refer to. Little bits of puzzle everywhere! God, I hate puzzles. What do you think, Holmes?”

“That you are stretching the metaphor too far.”

It was not exactly those words I uttered when we were leaving the Partridges’ residence. However, I tried to lighten the mood. Only seconds ago, we had had to apologize to a murderer, and this had been a personal blow as well as a professional low point for my friend, colleague and companion. (I guessed for Lestrade as well, but my first priority was – as always – Holmes.) It was soothing to know that Holmes remembered the dialogue – the real one, not the one I published in _The Strand_ under the title  _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ – from all those years ago and played along.

Back then, I had suspected something supernatural to be the cause of the hound; however, I had learned that it had been human nature gone wrong: the potential fiancée was already married to the attempted murderer of Sir Henry Baskerville. The courtship was only a trap to lure him in. She never was a sister but a sad victim of another ‘oh-so-not-perfect’-husband. Or, as Holmes had described it, “All smokes and mirrors”.

I remember the final explanation from him as if it had been yesterday. (It never made the final edit, for obvious reason.)

I had asked Holmes if he really believed that – that all there is to life is smoke and mirrors – and he had insisted it to be the case and had added, “and a little bit of human nature gone wrong.” Back then, I had been baffled, and I had said as such: “So, is there really nothing else for us to worry about in this life?”

“We are what we are. Take away everything that is impossible and what are you left with?”

First, I had guessed it to be “Everything” which had been wrong. Therefore, I had opted for “Nothing.”

“That’s closer. But actually, the answer is the truth.”

Back then, I had pretend to not understand it. As I have said previously: I play the fool for him from time to time, and none will be the wiser. None meaning everyone except us. That is and was and will remain the truth: that I am a smarter man that I let on, and that Holmes is more human than I will ever tell the public, and that in private we are each other’s heart and home. The rest? All smoke and mirrors.

Like the line ‘Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway’ always impels me to 221b Baker Street to follow along behind Sherlock Holmes, the great detective who abhors sentiment. The telegram that always transforms me into a ‘oh-so-not-perfect’ husband for the ever-understanding wife, Mrs. Watson, née Mary Morstan. Thank God, she never existed in the first place. Or, to be precise, she had been our client in the case I later published as _The Sign of Four_ but the ending? All smoke and mirrors.

There is something romantic at the heart of Sherlock Holmes that touches all of us. He is quixotic, cerebral, dashing and inspiring. However, there is also something dark and dangerous about Holmes, and we admire him for the courage with which he fights his demons. He broods, he plays Schubert, and he revels in danger and experiments with drugs. At times, he frightens us, and that is his allure.

However, while this might be all true, it is not the answer to everything.

The truth is that Holmes not only showed his heart when I had been hurt during _The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_. ‘It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the loyalty and love which lay beyond that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.’ That is what I had put down on paper. After all, one has to celebrate an anniversary, and it had been so similar to all those years before when we had confessed our love during _The Hound of the Baskervilles_.

As he said (or was it me?): All smoke and mirrors, and one has to hide the fire – our love – from the public, so I invented all the public stories to mirror our private life. And only a man like Sherlock Holmes can detect the truth behind it all, and he might scold me for a second or two, but then he will bestow on me a kiss and let slip the line about “holding the torch” which is like a reversed line to ‘Come at once’, only now meaning that we will retire early. This is who we really are.

Back then Holmes had kept me in the dark most of the time – oh, and I had been fuming when he had revealed himself in the hut –the punch was well deserved.

Here, during _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ , we had all the pieces but we could not make out a picture. Or something, to be frank, Holmes edits most of my metaphors in my publications because he has a secret knack for it. I, for once, had received a scolding and a private spanking for the “flying out of the window, hand in hand” line.

(Just an example: This is what happened all those years ago:

“Watson, you are not useless. Close the door of the hut. Listen. It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light, my friend. A light that shines upon me and... illuminates me.”

“Like a torch?”

“Yes, very much like a torch. But not any old torch, Watson. You are my torch. You are my own special torch.”

“I do not know what to say.”

“Do not say anything. Just turn yourself on. And keep yourself turned on whenever you are around me.”

“I just feel like nothing compared to you.”

“You are not nothing, Watson. You are my torch.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I know. And you know what, John?”

“What?”

“I love you too.”)

Anyway, I ramble.

It is a tendency that is linked to the feelings I harbour for Holmes, I confess. So much goes unsaid, has to go unsaid, in our daily lives. We cannot speak plainly; I cannot write down the uncensored version of our adventures; all that happens behind closed doors has to stay hidden.

However, I am only human. Furthermore, I am a storyteller.

Oh, how I wish to write down our romance. Alternatively, simply put “I love you, Sherlock” to paper. I am no poet but for him I would try. After all, I was no biographer before I met him. Holmes claims to abhor sentiment but I am sure that, just like the sun rises in the morning, if he got the chance he would read my lines and learn them by heart. There is no man in England who knows all the exact quotations about Holmes’ hands except for Holmes, after all. Oh, he puts up a front and pretends to scoff, but he is my most loyal reader as well as my muse. In addition, without his editing there would be far more passages about his beautiful, elegant hands in publications.

Anyway, where was I?

In those hours during _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ , I learned once more that one does not need the extra drama. The human mind has mountains. It can paint a picture so spellbinding...

First, however, we went home. There, I tried to soothe him in our parlour while not giving us away, as it was still the early evening and Mrs Hudson or one of the maids or our Baker Street Irregulars or another client or someone, anyone, could come in and see us and it would be ruin for us both. Then, while Holmes paced the room, I pretended to read a book whose title I could not recall. What I remembered from letting my mind wander was what Holmes had once said during one of our train journeys to another client. That in the idyllic countryside the most vicious crime could be found. While Holmes was spending time in deep thought, I ordered tea and some biscuits for appearance’s sake and could not stop thinking that the great Sherlock Holmes might be wrong for once.

I remembered all too vividly that I had bristled when Holmes had first introduced me to this concept. Come to think about it, even back then I had assumed that his distaste for all the quiet in the countryside had partly been the cause of it. Holmes, when not faced with a case, gets moody. All too often, I have to coax him into wakefulness, and I do not mean in the bedroom. (Even though I will admit that certain activities are a distraction between cases that benefit us both; sadly, I can only offer myself during the night and only for some stolen hours.) The countryside lacked the bustle of a metropolis. There was no theatre or opera to offer distractions, no restaurants where we could wine and dine, and only police officers that questioned Holmes’ abilities. Therefore, maybe, the truth was that (only) Holmes would turn murderous because of the (quiet) English countryside.

Criminals, let them be petty thieves or serial killers, blackmailers or gang members, could maybe be found everywhere because it might be simply a case of human nature gone wrong. And as we made our way back to the potential crime scene, I could not stop thinking that I was right for once. (And oh, that was a heady feeling!) After all, it was more of a villa then a house. We were in the heart of our city. The announcement of the murder had happened after at least a dozen guests had left the building. It was a private residence and as long as the lady was not really suffering from a nervous condition, what had happened and could happen was more vicious than anything we had encountered in the English countryside since I had met Holmes on 29th of January in 1881.

However, and that was the crux: where did the so-called-perfect husband hide the bodies? We had beaten Moriarty; this monster could not be Holmes’ master. We had to stop Russel Partridge.

Needless to say, I longed to comfort my companion and I knew that he wished to hold my hand in return. I sat as close to him as we dared in the carriage that was bringing us back to the Partridges’ residence. It was not enough, but no more could be done. I wanted to kiss his forehead or to smooth his hair or cradle him in my arms. Not even some supportive words were permitted; some endearments of the less incriminating sort were all I let slip (“old boy” was a favourite of us both); always fearing that someone would overhear us.

Yes, we were lovers, and yes, in the eyes of the law we were criminals too. Sometimes the law is an ass. Holmes would not be scandalized by this as he knows about my strong words from time to time, and I know that he enjoys some rougher handling in the bedroom from time to time. What two consenting adults do in their private bedchamber should be no-one else’s business.

Yet, it is what it is, but let us say, that there is a reason why Holmes abhors blackmailers like Milverton. One could not live a double, secret life and not be affected severely when faced with such a vile creature. Criminals are considered human nature gone wrong; however, I cannot see anything wrong with what Holmes and I do. Oh, bending the law from time to time, to that I will confess. Holmes, for instance, has a tendency to break and enter to gain evidence. To breach one’s lover however, to try to become one, and if only for a too short period, how could that be wrong? It is pointless – do I not know it – but it makes me mad and sad in equal measure when all I want is to be loved and to love in return.

Let us skip to the ending before I become too maudlin.

We entered the house through the back door. As I said in the paragraph above, Holmes has a certain talent and a slightly illegal set of lock-picks. Holmes convinced the lady to become our client. After she had recovered from the shock of two men appearing in her private rooms all of a sudden, that is. The woman was brave; she did not faint or raise the household. Instead, she acquiesced to Holmes’ offer to help her. He coaxed her into setting up a trap with her as the bait. To say that I was far from amused would be an understatement. I scoffed and scolded – and not for show as it is often the case – but for real. It was far too dangerous. Holmes should have seen reason but he was as stubborn as a mule.

I should clarify that it did not happen as I later published in _The Strand_. To be honest, I never understood why the audience believed I would leave Holmes behind. As if I would have him face danger on his own, or be in a room with a woman – client, married or not – without me by his side. Seriously, the notion that The Great Sherlock Holmes has left his own deerstalker on the table as an oversight? It should have been a clear indicator that it was a fabrication of my own imagination.

No, in truth we two hid together behind the curtain in the lady’s private rooms and listened to the madman. In our hideout, we had witnessed Janet Partridge packing some of her belongings in a travelling bag and unpacking it shortly afterwards. I thought it odd that there was no housemaid to help her, but on the other hand, it might draw attention to the enterprise and maybe even endanger another innocent soul. Enter the villain, one Russel Partridge. After all, the stage was set for him, we were ready to begin, or, in this case, our bait was, his intended victim.

“I think that you are insane, Russel, but not dangerous. Therefore, I decided to stay the night and leave in the morning. So tell me, where did you hide the bodies?”

“They never left the house.”

“But the police, even Mr Sherlock Holmes, searched all the premises.”

“It was a terrible temptation to not tell Mr Holmes where they are.” Oh, and I saw him winking, trying to imitate my love. It hurt as if he had rammed a knife inside me. Then, as if not only mocking her but also sensing that we might be in the room as well, he pointed at the clock on the wall. “Tick, tock, my dear. Only fifteen minutes left. If I were you, I would start to run.”

When all was clear, we came out and Holmes repeated his plan, then all we had to do was to wait in the main hall for the man who killed like clockwork.

For a second, while we hid behind a curtain close to the stairs to await the murderous husband, I feared that it would be _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ all over again, only to realize that it was far worse: here, we both were in the dark. Holmes was as lost as I am. It was a horrendous enterprise. It felt like _The Case of the Master Blackmailer_ only ten times worse.

While we had waited for Milverton to enter his private study, we had known what to expect and while I might had been furious beyond reason over Holmes’ deceiving of me (and being engaged, to a woman, no less!), I still had been crouching next to him without hesitation. That in the end one of Milverton’s victims had taken matters into her own hand was a surprise to both of us but we had risen to the occasion.

There has always been two of us ever since the case I had later published under the title _A Study in Scarlet_. Since January the 29th of 1881, it is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in 221b Baker Street in London. And since Dartmoor, it has been more than a flat we share.

Another milestone for our personal partnership had been the case at Roylott’s manor. The case had been a nasty business: The terrible stepfather who had killed one of the twins already and set up the trap to murder the other young woman because upon her wedding day, the fortune inherited from their dead parents would be hers. Oh, how he trained the snake and turned it into a murder weapon. It was altogether vile. _The Speckled Band_ was another adventure for the books altered for the public. Because when one had had the prime opportunity to share a room with your partner in work and life, one has to use it. It is elementary, if I might be so bold. In particular, when one has a partner who knows how one gets excited in the face of danger. The heated kissing had been very nice and we had been both tempted to go further... Seriously, the snake had had the most appalling timing!

The difference to _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ was that back at Roylott’s manor Holmes had observed the rope that led nowhere, and during the nights on the moor during _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ , as well as when we had been hiding behind the curtain at Milverton’s house, he had known it all and was playing me for a fool.

Sure, I played the fool for him as I am a fool in love and vice versa, and oh, I enjoyed our little game for the public because I always knew that he knew that he had to make it up to me behind closed doors later. First, an explanation, second, often with far more details and – should I say – personal touches, and third, a rather thorough apology. What can I say? We are a perfect match. The genius needs an audience, I need my stories, and we both need each other because a man has needs and the heart has demands as well. And oh, my lovely Sherlock, he always surrenders willingly and oh so beautifully into my arms.

Rambling again, I know. (Because I love him.)

Back to business. The young woman was a brave one; the villain even said so. I remember vividly how she stood there, head high, voice barely trembling, at the top of the stairs. How she had said that she could not believe that he would hurt her. A lie, of course, and one that all of us knew to be so. For some fearful seconds she acted as if she trusted where she should not. Oh, it was a cunning spectacle. And just when she started to descend the stairs, stepping in front of him, giving him the perfect opportunity to murder her... Sherlock Holmes had an epiphany.

He stepped out and shouted, “Do not take the last step.”

Russel Partridge, the insane fanatic (Holmes’ words, not mine), was still enjoying his little game far too much, as he replied nonchalantly, “I am sure that it is not against the law to go upstairs in one’s own private house. And as you can see with your own eyes: My wife is unharmed.”

Holmes approached the stairs, step by step. I hid behind the curtain, ready to be of service, to be at Holmes’ side when he needed me. However, it was not yet time. First Holmes inquired further: “And the other seven women, Mr Partridge?”

“What other seven, Mr Holmes? You searched this house all afternoon. The other seven exist in the mind of my poor, sick wife’s imagination.”

The bastard had the nerve to smile. I wanted to punch him; and Holmes offered me an opportunity – more or less.

“Watson, get the poker from the fireplace.”

In a flash, my gun appeared in his hand as well. There is something about Holmes with my gun in his possession. It is dark and twisted but erotic. As I say, there is a reason why I alter my stories for the public. Anyway, I got the poker and for a second I remembered the scene from <i>The Speckled Band</i>, the one in which Holmes had bent the poker in half. Oh, my Sherlock is a man with many talents and strength.

“I imagine that there is a way to open your unique coffin, Mr Partridge. And if not, Watson is more than capable of breaking it open.”

Apparently, the monster wanted to enjoy the show until the last minute as he, himself, operated the mechanism. Like a twisted showman, he silently almost danced down the stairs. Each step precise, always a little pause in between, he was making sure that all eyes were on him. Then, in a flash, he pushed a button. For a second, there was silence. We in horror, the murderer in proud glee. I am not sure if he did not do a little bow.

It was a ghastly sight. The smell of decay in the air. The human remains in some cases only bones. To imagine that they were once seven young women who everyone believed to have left their husband-to-be at the altar but instead were left behind here, forever. Only seeing the light, long dead already, when the mausoleum was opened for another unfortunate woman’s dead body.

Holmes was the first to find words: “The mortal remains of his seven victims, Watson. Each step a coffin and every coffin a monument of the most insane killer I have ever met.”

The lady fainted while Mr Partridge tried to escape. Holmes held the lady, I held the culprit. When Lestrade burst into the rooms – of course, we had assistance – the clock struck 9 o’clock.

 

What went unsaid is what happened after.

A quiet evening in, we both too rattled to enjoy a gay night out and instead sat as close as we dared on the settee before the fireplace in 221b.

Tomorrow morning, it would be a healthy breakfast again, and maybe my love would surprise me with a new pot of marmalade, but tonight Holmes and I smoked our pipes and were as content as two men can be. Or, should I say, two men who were once again successful in their professional life but even more grateful to have found a home in each other’s heart?

While I pondered over this, and thought about what to pen for our private recollection and what for public consumption, my Holmes surprised me by catching my hand and setting a kiss on my pulse point. It was a fleeing motion, unheard of but oh so welcome. Before I could scold him, the clock on our mantelpiece announced the time, and it struck me like a bolt of lightning.

Now, it was half past one, which means one minute prior, when my love had dared to bestow a kiss on my wrist, it had been 29 minutes past one. It had been the 29th of January, the first month of the year 1881, when we had met.

“Oh, Holmes,” I whispered and something went unsaid but not unheard: my perfect husband.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

>  _The Case of the Perfect Husband_ is the 27th episode of the 1954-1955 TV series Sherlock Holmes starring Ronald Howard as Sherlock Holmes and Howard Marion-Crawford as Dr. Watson. Aired on 2 may 1955 on MPTV (USA). Black & White. 25 min.  
> Russel Partridge, a rich and respectable art collector, threatens to kill his wife at nine o'clock on their first wedding anniversary. She does not know if she believes him, and Lestrade does not either. Holmes takes the threat seriously and is able to thwart an attempt on her life. He also makes a gruesome discovery in a secret hiding place.  
> (https://www.arthur-conan-doyle.com/index.php/The_Case_of_the_Perfect_Husband)  
> Further elements – in particular, regarding _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ – are from the drama/radio play with the same title, adapted by Steven Canny and John Nicholson for Peepolykus. Oh, yes, including the love declaration. I wished I could take credit for the sex puns, but they are canon too.  
> Sheldon Reynolds who was responsible for Howard! Holmes could not let go of the Victorian Husbands and produced in 1980 the TV series starring Geoffrey Whitehead as Sherlock Holmes. _The Speckled Band_ is the only original ACD case the series adapted. Otherwise, this TV series recycled major parts of Howard! Holmes, only made it gayer (it is possible).  
> Or, as Reynolds said himself: “When reading [ **A Study in Scarlet** ], I was suddenly struck by the difference between the character [in the novel] and that of the stage and screen. Here, Holmes was a young man in his 30s, human, gifted, of a philosophic and scholastic bent, but subject to fateful mistakes which stemmed from over eagerness and lack of experience.” (https://www.arthur-conan-doyle.com/index.php?title=Sheldon_Reynolds)  
> The only remaining mystery is why everyone knows GRANADA instead. The irony is that they commissioned Whitehead! Holmes before (!) and it never aired in UK in the end. However, in many European Countries, until today, they are the incarnation of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. _The Case of the Master Blackmailer_ is the one this Watson alludes to (which added A LOT that was not in ACD canon by the way).  
> Geoffrey Whitehead would later voice the gayest Moriarty ever – for the BBC in _The Newly Discovered Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_ (1998). It is in general the QUEEREST you can find, full stop. Parts of it, _BBC SHERLOCK_ would reuse in their TV series, including “Boring”, “I’m not gay” (the shouting with Mrs Hudson, anyone?), sadly, without the “cockfight” and only alluring to “flashing your ankles at your fellow soldiers” (Major Sholto, anyone). Oh, and cross-dressing.  
> Geoffrey Whitehead would later star alongside Benedict Cumberbatch in a BBC radio comedy called _Cabin Pressure_.  
> Cumberbatch would go on to _BBC SHERLOCK_ as well as narrating the audio book of John Taylor’s _Sherlock Holmes: The Rediscovered Railway Mysteries and Other Stories_.
> 
> Why am I telling you all this? Because the recipient wished for rare! Holmes. You ask, I deliver.


End file.
